Remembering Falsities
by northerlywind
Summary: Not too long after Auggie's accident, Joan pays him a visit to get him back to the Company. As always, it's all business.


**A/N: **This was supposed to be a short oneshot that had been flitting around in my mind randomly at - you guessed it - nighttime. I wasn't even going to write it but then I wrote and wrote and somehow end up with this 3.5k story. Wow. Anyway, this is still a oneshot, inspired by In the Beginning by Patricia Louise. Enjoy. Please review.

* * *

There was a sharp, businesslike rap on the door and he got up to see who it was. He thought it was some sales agent, or something of the sort because he hadn't any real visitors for - well, for a while. He stood by the door cautiously, and let out a, "Hello? Who is it?"

"It's Joan."

The two words stunned him and he was left to think - Joan? Of course it could very well be another Joan but he knew it was Joan, from the Company. He remembered with a bit of a nostalgic quirk to his lips the method of using real names - he found it odd at first but he realized soon after it was much easier to keep up a real identity. Fake ones could break you - the tiniest slip to the wrong person could prove utterly disastrous, and it certainly wasn't good for one's mental health, being a false person. He blinked his eyes to clear the sudden rush of thoughts that threatened to overtake him. He breathed slowly and leaned against the door.

"Anderson, I know you're in there. I need to have a brief word with you. Open the door." The voice was as businesslike as the knock preceding it and he struggled to picture the face. Strangely enough, all he could remember was her hair. It was golden, always let loose, flowing, even on the most dangerous of missions. He couldn't picture her face - not at all. He could remember generic female features but he couldn't discern them from one woman to another. They all seemed to have the same distinction. All he could remember was that hair, and how ridiculous it was for her to keep it down all the time. He remembered the way she stood, powerful, steely, ready. He remembered all these things but still the golden hair came back to him. He had no idea why.

"How do I know it's you?" he finally said. He had meant for his voice to be strong, but it wavered on the ends of his words just as his body shook, slightly. What did the Company want with him? He briefly thought, foolishly, that they meant to assassinate him, because he knew too much, then he came back to rationale and realized he was replacing real memories with false pop culture. He curled his fists so he would not sense them trembling. It wasn't fear that quaked his body, no, not in the slightest. It was the memories that rushed through him at such a furious pace, so violently that the strength of it pierced his soul. The trembling was from his bleeding soul, the wounds fresh because he remembered. He was unsteady because he knew not the real from the fake, just as the identities were to protect from the losing of one's sanity, this had made him hit the breaking point.

"Anderson, I know you recognize me. I could rattle off the Smithsonian protocol but I don't think either of us need to suffer through that." The voice was still so solid, so unwavering, that he had to wait before he realized the words behind these. He knew she heard his the discrepancy in the steadiness of his voice but he also knew she had chosen to ignore it. She knew, he realized. But what was she here for?

"Anderson." This time the voice took on the slightest tinge of impatience. He was left to wonder, then, what was the colour of impatience? Perhaps an orange, not quite the warning and rage of red but a caution. The blacks and whites of her voice dripped slightly with the new colour and he breathed more, steadying his breath because he had no control over his body.

"Anderson. I will give you time but the Company runs on a tight schedule." This time there was a pause between the words, not so carefully chosen and scripted as it gave way to seem at first, then. The voice seemed to wonder at the right persuasion technique, seemed to analyze his reaction thus far and gauge the perfect tone of voice, the perfect words to lure him out. He knew, because they had the very same training. Persuasion, though he didn't remember if it was called precisely that - most likely not. She had more experience than him - when he was properly inducted into the Company she was already a senior agent.

That hair, he seemed to remember it almost with a - and this made him feel rather uncomfortable - romantic fondness. Perhaps it was just fondness, nostalgia, remembrance. He did not know. Of course, the senior agent had caught his attention - there weren't many female agents back then and not even now, though he wouldn't know. He wasn't part of it anymore. So he wondered why she was here. He let his eyes shut but drained out the memories until he could only retain the identity of her and drew in a deep breath. Then with precise, unshaking fingers, he pulled open the latch and with it the heavy door.

The motion was anticlimactic to him as he still sensed the same nothingness, but for the slight hints of scent - he wondered at it, what it was. He was never one for precisely cataloguing various scents. He knew what pleased him and what did not and no more. But this was, this was verging on sweet, but not sickly so, not entirely sugary, there was something more, something different. He imagined it as honey, or perhaps vanilla, though he truly did not know what those two aromas really were. He placed those scents as such relative to the woman before him, who still had yet to talk.

Most likely she was examining him, though the time she was taking to do so showed him that she was not trying to be secretive or subtle or simple. Five seconds was already too much and drew suspicion; five seconds of observation was, perhaps, the maximum for a medium distance, across a room, with eye-contact, more or less such as this, a quick flick of the eyes was the best one could do, and if more was required a sidelong glance with the back turned would do the trick. His mind pulled up files from the dusty cabinet in his mind and he remembered all of it, the training, the figures, the facts, already ingrained into him so that he did not need to think, so that - in the past - he would unwittingly flick his eyes at a girl only to look back with information accidentally gleaned - she was Polish, she had a brother, she was from out of town, she liked him.

He swallowed then, the sound loud to his only recently attuned ears. She before him seemed to have recovered, however, as there was the slightest, intentional clearing of the throat and then a brisk, "Anderson." as greeting. She seemed to have thought it was necessary to exchange pleasantries in order to ease his mood for soon after she continued in the same manner, "You're looking well. Better." - and by this she meant to show to him that she had been to see him before - when? He did not remember, he had no memory of it so either way it had been early. He must have been still unconscious or influenced by the morphine or it was so that he did not wish to retain his memory of the event, back, far back. The thought of her visiting him for some reason intrigued him as well as confused him. However, he let his shoulders slump down from its rigid state and forced his body to relax, though his hands were still clamped in fists against his sides to prevent them from shaking.

"Please come with me." He knew the please was tacked on as a forethought because he would require it to calm down further - did he? He must have portrayed some sort of tense figure because business was business and between agents - well, agent and former agent - one did not need to use such trivial words. They knew of the tricks. Of course, each agent had his or her own way of going about things. For example, many of them chose to use flirting as a means for distraction - that one, he knew and had personal experience with, worked well but had to be used in moderation. If he were to be an agent now he had to use the very best methods of distraction because god knew he had one particular trait that made him very much noticeable.

He caught himself with that last thought and wondered at it heavily. If he were to be an agent? Never. He thought this with bitterness and regret yet finality and ultimate knowledge. Never. He wondered with foolish hope if perhaps that was why Joan had come. But no. Never. It would never be, never again. He felt his eyes blink in rapid succession and wondered if his eyes were taking on a telltale glisten. But then he thought, he could do all sorts of things with his eyes and no one would notice because they would all be looking away. He nodded, jerkily, and went to get his cane. He did not take anything else and pulled the door shut behind him.

"There is a Company car waiting." He listened to her extraneous explanation, because he knew, in part, though he had never really cared about it because it was seldom that the Company came to the agent. It was the other way around, practically always - but he was not an agent. Not anymore. He wondered why they did not speak in his own room, because it was safe, very much so - he knew because only four months before he had another check of his place by the Company and they had deemed it safe. But they were walking down the hall in any case, his hand trailing the wallpaper because the hall itself was too slim for his cane. Perhaps this was information of particular importance - but why did it concern him, enough to warrant a senior agent coming to his door and a Company car.

He would be dismissed then, properly, once and for all. He felt it was certain. He knew it already, but perhaps they wished to do it formally, professionally, actually. It was well known and explanatory that afterwards, he would no longer be an agent. He knew it as soon as he had stopped his raging and thought. He felt a deep sense of regret through his heart but dismissed it and kept walking. He walked to rid the sensation of quaking and to disclose the sense of his weakness. Once again, the thought of assassination came to him but he quickly pushed it down. He was being irrational in this painfully suspended moment when he needed to be completely rational.

Soon they arrived at the elevator, upon whence he heard the chime as Joan pushed the button to go down. They waited in steady silence, his nerves on razor-sharp edges, his body - still - shaking as he awaited that metal box. He felt his eyes close once more and quickly his thoughts resumed their speeding pace as he thought of all of them, all of them at the Company, that he knew, that he did not know anymore. They were out of association now, and besides the current contact with Joan he did not know them and they were not to know him. It was the way things were now that he was a civilian, mundane, not them, not an agent, not anything, nothing. There was another quiet chime, unassuming, and he heard the metal doors slide open. He did not hear the sound of shoes on carpet so he slipped inside and Joan followed.

She pressed the button again, heralding yet another chime and he felt, or imagined, the sensation of falling all the way down, slowly, suspended - as if he had fallen into a pool. He felt himself drifting, felt himself forget he was there, forget himself, and already forgot Joan beside him because she did not talk; neither did he. Only the slight shuddering indicating the elevator was grinding to a stop shook him out of his half-trance and the omnipresent sound that accompanied it. Once again he was the first to step out, and he wondered at this surprising courtesy Joan was offering him - she was, after all, the agent while he was not and on top of that she was the senior agent. Yet still he stood on the lobby and Joan said to him a quick, "This way, Anderson." He followed the sound of her heels slipping away, to the side door, and they were led through a short set of steps, through another thick door, to the open air.

The open air. He had hardly desire to venture into it more than necessarily yet now he was being thrust into more than one shock; pushed into the pool where he sank slowly, suffocating, suffering, while his body was still numb from the icy water. He followed her steps, fading, until they stopped and so did he. He heard the sound of two car doors opening and he determined that once more Joan would let him in first, so he stepped into the curiously stereotypical black Mercedes. He closed up his cane and slid across the row of leather seats until his left shoulder hit the window. He heard and felt Joan move in after him, the door slamming shut again, the sound of the driver getting in, and closing that door too.

He heard the ignition start, quietly humming, just out of detection, as agents should be, this was the Company car, and all property should be unassuming yet dangerous, as this was. His fingers danced lightly on the leather seat; he breathed the smell of it slowly, the leather, the smells of government, of power. He tried to remember the interior but could only recall dark, everything so secretive, tinted windows, a shade between the front row and the back row of seats, everything dark, as everything was to him now. It was almost ironic, really, as he thought of it and could not remember more.

"Anderson, I'm going to go straight to the point." The sharp voice of Joan cut through his drifting thoughts and he straightens, slightly, his slightly shaking fingers moving to clasp on his lap. "We want you back." Four words, twice more than the original punch to his sense and yet a thousandfold more stunning. It felt as though his weak and frail consciousness was being drowned in a tub of cold water, repeatedly, until he could not gather his thoughts.

I'm going to go straight to the point, he thought, mirroring Joan's words. "I'm no use as an agent. As anything to the Company." He tried to keep his voice from sounding bitter but he could only maintain few things at a time, so his voice showed clearly his tormented thoughts. He made his eyes stay open so he would not further show his weakness but he so wished to stay there, against the soft seats, drifting slowly on a lazy river, and not have to think. He knew why she was there, what concerned him, but still he could make absolutely no sense of it, of any of it.

"You have use." The reply was firm and yet his consciousness instantly reeled from it, disbelieving. He was hurt, he was wounded, in much more than a physical manner, and it would take much more than these thinly veiled excuses to heal. "We need you back. Tech ops. Head of tech ops."

"A pity position?" he shot back suddenly, his fists somehow clenched once more though he did not remember unfurling his fingers.

"No. Anderson, listen to me. Stay rational." Joan's words echoed those of the Farm's instructors and he wondered if that was on purpose, if she was trying to bring him back, trying to make him remember it, all of it, everything; it defined his life but now he had no life so he needed no definition. "I will tell you the truth, all of it, if you promise me to stay rational." He did not respond to this for he was still angry, still angry at everything but particularly this at the moment, that the Company would be like this. He did not know precisely his reasons for his anger but he felt it, and felt the irrational thoughts as opposed to what Joan had just urged him.

"Anderson." The word - of him - drew him painfully back into reality. He forced his fists to unclench and made his shoulders ease backwards into the seat that awaited it. He wondered at the silence, the smoothness of the car because he recalled it driving, moving, but did not feel it at all. It was just them, and for all he could see, they could be sitting in two leather chairs at the Company itself.

"I need - I need questions answered." The brokenness of his words caused him to recoil. If he could not give proper words then what did they think? It was for pity, all of it. They felt the guilt for what happened under their command and so, this. Who had they dismissed to give him this position.

"Ask."

He knew he was good at computers, and he knew the Company knew this. He knew the Company had everything - absolutely everything - on file, and he knew he was good, he knew, in the deepest level of his mind, he could take the position. But the arrogance of the Company, to offer him this when he was in this state of drifting, it infuriated him.

"Why - are you here?" He kept his words slow to maintain their solidity because he knew giving his mind free rein would cause it to collapse.

"I've been promoted to the head of the DPD." The words were brisk as usual but he could tell there was a hint of something to them, pride. What colour was pride? Perhaps blue, bright but not too much so, soothing yet strong. Her words were tinged blue.

He was surprised at this. It was most definitely not the answer he had been expecting. He did not respond, only moving just the slightest at a miniscule rocking from the car, he remembered the Company car. "Congratulations." He made his voice as even as hers yet still his brokenness was evident, was there, she knew it, and he knew so.

"Thank you. Any other questions?"

"No. Not right now." He felt his eyes slowly sinking and he fluttered them open. He wouldn't let his eyes close, even in this environment, tense yet comfortable. He realized he was used to this, this was his life - his former life. He knew this life and he wished for this life, back, but he would not let it fool him. This life was false, fabricated out of guilt. He did not want a false life, for his life was already so fragile as it was.

"Truth is, Anderson, this is all politics. Arthur still wants you in. You're still in, right now - officially you're on standby. You know so much, already. It would cost too much - financially, and in terms of safety - to dismiss you and let someone else in." He heard a small pause in her diatribe and a slight shift of clothing; the small hints of noise were like firecrackers. "And why would we? We have a perfectly qualified former field agent in our ranks who can easily fill in the role of tech ops. It's bureaucracy at its best, Anderson." The voice had just the hint of sarcasm, now, an umber colour, and he thought of it briefly. "I want you back, Anderson. You're useful. You're an asset and I agree - it would be a waste to let you go. But not for the Company, for you. We need you. You don't need us. So I'm asking you to come back to the Company. It's a prestigious role - and I know you can do it well."

His thoughts were swarming him, attacking him, and he felt his hands shift slightly once more like a seismograph. "I can't work with computers anymore." But he knew he was in. And he knew she knew as well.

"Thank you, Auggie." There was nothing else for either of them to say.

He remembered her hair, and he remembered the leather seats, and the training, and the memories. He remembered.


End file.
